


Week 41

by darkmpreg



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abortion, Belly Kink, Dark, Dark Mpreg, M/M, Mpreg, Pregnancy Kink, Rape, Snuff, Torture, gay men, pregnant man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:49:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21929263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkmpreg/pseuds/darkmpreg
Summary: [This is a story adapted from ASSTR user anony.mouse2@hotmail.com made into mpreg, with added bits from me.]A pregnant man and their unborn son are willingly tortured by the husband.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 39





	Week 41


    I feel the special secret thrill as he clicks the handcuffs shut
    around my wrists: the thrill of maybe, the thrill of what if, the
    thrill that comes from knowing that this might be the night that my
    husband finally decides to end me. I am forty one weeks pregnant. I
    could go into labor at any moment. My husband is about to fuck me; that might be enough,  
    
    all by itself, to get me started.  
    
    Yes, I might start, but I will not finish, for he will not let me deliver
    this baby. I have looked into his eyes and into his soul, and I know
    this to be true.  
    
    I stand quietly in my boxer briefs, waiting patiently as his
    eyes assess my masculine, muscular body. I feel huge but well-loved: my swollen round
    belly draws him to me. He has been coming
    for me almost daily of late; he simply can't resist my massive,
    pregnant body. He loves feeling the baby moving. He likes to slap it, sometimes punch it.  
    
    He appreciates how the baby can feel pain, and how I can feel the baby's pain. It is a wonder  
    
    I've made it 41 weeks.
    
    He nods, satisfied. "Lay down, slave. On your back."
    
    "Yes, master." I hasten to comply. It is not entirely comfortable to
    lay down upon my cuffed wrists. My tremendous weight presses the sharp
    steel into my flesh and I wince. But my pain is unimportant. Obeying
    my husband is the only thing that matters. As I lay down, the baby readjusts inside my massive gut.  
    
    He sticks his butt out towards the side. I can feel his head between my hips. Our son is massive, and in truth,  
    
    I'm afraid to birth it. Though muscular I may be, my hips are narrow.  
    
      
    
    His practiced hands peel the boxer briefs down my legs.
    He takes a moment to examine them, and smiles when he sees how
    wet they are. My cock stands at full attention beneath my misshapen belly. It drips.
    
    He stands before me, naked and hard. Will he take me now? Though I
    know it is forbidden, I whimper softly. I can't help myself. The
    excitement is intolerable.
    
    "Quiet, slave," my master commands.
    
    "Sorry, sir," I whisper. But he continues to play with my hard
    nipples. Men don't grow breasts, not even during pregnancy. But we produce milk.  
    
    Or some of us do. Not me. Not yet. 
    
    
    I am one week overdue and cannot properly feed my child when it arrives. I'm already  
    
    a failure as a father. I writhe uncontrollably. Why doesn't he just fuck me? Can't
    he tell how badly I need it? Yes, of course he can--and that's exactly
    why he's waiting. He is tormenting me with his fingers, and I love him
    for that.
    
    A second involuntary whimper escapes my lips. My husband's eyes
    sparkle. "I warned you once. Now I have to punish you."
    
    "Yes, master!" I squirm gently on the bed, awaiting the sweet kiss of
    the crop. Last time he whipped my belly until it bled, and
    I'm sure he will be every bit as thorough this time...
    
    But that is not a whip he's holding in his hand. It's a scalpel. I
    gasp in delight and astonishment. Could it be...?
    
    I have no time for further thoughts. He grips my nipple and pulls it.  
    
    The scalpel flashes, and I am suddenly blind
    with pain. I watch, amazed, as a crimson fountain erupts out of my
    nipple hole. I realize that I am screaming, but that's not important.
    What matters is the agony, the desire...he has not yet touched me
    below the waist, and yet...
    
    He takes my second nipple, and that sends me over the edge. It is the
    most difficult (and thus the most satisfying) kind of orgasm:  
    
    a climax which suffuses my entire body. I come volumes, jets of cum splashing my pregnant belly  
    
    as the bright red blood bubbles up out of the gaping wounds where my nipples
    used to be. The blood trickles slowly over my vast belly. The baby is moving inside.  
    
    He's watching it kick and squirm.
    I feel that am truly a man, perhaps for the first time in my brief
    life.
    
    "Silence, slave!" my master roars. Removing my nipples has
    dramatically aroused him. His cock is a swollen purple weapon, and I
    cannot wait to feel it inside me; pumping into my pregnant hole.
    
    "Please, master," I moan. "It hurts so much...Jesus, Mary and Joseph,
    it hurts! Please, master, I...I have to scream...my nipples..."
    
    "Are gone. As your cock soon will be, unless you shut up."
    
    I open my innocent brown eyes as wide as I can. "Oh, please, sir, no!
    Not my cock!" The script calls for me to utter these words, and I
    deliver them faithfully, though I silently pray that he WILL castrate
    me. If he takes my manhood, he will kill me. I'm sure of that.
    
    "You dare to question me?" he howls. Mutilating my nipples has driven
    him mad with lust. He wants to snuff me; I can feel it. I just have to
    push a little more...
    
    "No, master!" I whimper. "I would never dare to question you! But
    without my cock, I would never be able to properly cum again. I would..."
    
    "You would have to concentrate on pleasuring me...which is what your
    body is for, after all."
    
    "Yes, master." He has the idea now.
    
    "Greedy fuck. Stealing pleasure all these years, when your only
    thought should have been to service your husband..." His scalpel trails along my belly,  
    
    along the oblong protrusions where the baby stretches outward beneath the skin.  
    
    I hold my breath and await my destiny. Our destiny. Our baby, our son, won't survive this either.  
    
    By the time I recover some semblance of sanity, my husband has set
    aside his blade. He's saving it for later, I realize.  
    
    He has now produced a strange and vaguely sinister
    electrical device. It consists of a black box, which is connected by
    wires to a pair of square paddles.
    
    "Do you know what this is?" he asks.
    
    "No," I gasp, barely able to form the word through my agony.
    
    "It's called a defibrillator. It's used in hospitals. It's designed to
    deliver a short, sharp shock, to restart a patient's heart. However,
    I've made certain modifications to its design." He does not specify
    what those modifications might be, but I imagine that I will find out
    soon enough.
    
    I hold my breath as he presses the paddles against my naked, ravaged
    chest. The device is apparently operated by means of thumb switches;
    he throws these now, and I scream through clenched teeth as the
    sizzling current flows into my tortured wounds. My naked body is wracked
    with convulsions. The fetus stretches outward and upward as if it was being pulled  
    
    into a tight line. My belly contorts with our son's movement.  
    
    I scream wildly, no longer concerned about possible punishments. I know that I have  
    
    earned the ultimate sanction tonight. What I do at this point is completely irrelevant,  
    
    and I have never known such perfect freedom.
    
    The shocks are indeed sharp, brutally so, but they are by no means
    short. They continue long past the time when my heart would have
    restarted, had it stopped. This is a medical device no longer. In my
    husband's capable hands it has become a fine instrument of torture.
    
    I sense his next move before he makes it. He has been working me over
    like a true master, letting the pain build slowly so that at last I
    might be prepared for the ultimate torture.  
    
      
    
    He has deliberately stayed away from my pregnant belly so far, and we both know what that means.
    
    Now he deactivates the paddles and moves them from my chest to my
    belly. He places one just above my extroverted navel, and one just
    below. He smiles a loving smile. The baby had returned to its normal position inside me,  
    
    but he's moving again. My husband kisses the bump and our son kicks his lips, and my  
    
    handsome husband licks my belly and sucks on it. With a bit of suction, his son's hand is between his teeth,  
    
    with only the thin skin of my belly between them.  
    
      
    
    I think for a moment that he's going to bite down and break the fetus's hand. But he lets it go,  
    
    and our son kicks wildly. My belly looks like it has been possessed.  
    
      
    
    And then he throws the switches.
    
    I feel a pain unlike any I have ever experienced before. The agony is
    cripplingly intense; it is surely as excruciating as anything he's
    ever done to me, and that's saying something. But there is something
    more. This pain is not mine, or not mine alone. To my infinite
    astonishment I realize that my son is also feeling this pain, and
    that I in turn am feeling his pain, as he kicks and thrashes inside
    his father's tortured body.  
    
      
    
    The baby's movement is unlike anything I've ever seen before. He's trashing. He's  
    
    afraid. He's in agony. 
    
    There is no precedent for this pain, no name for it. My husband holds
    the paddles in place, patiently increasing the current as his pregnant husband and
    son squirm and suffer beneath his hands. I am in awe. I
    have always admired his power, but this, this is something
    astonishing. I am nothing to him. I am less than nothing. And the life
    that he has planted in my belly...all of this he will sacrifice, for a
    moment's pleasure. And as the deadly current flows through the
    amniotic sac into my fetus, I see that this is just and right.  
    
    Something in the way I'm gurgling makes him stop. He
    deactivates the paddles and sets them aside.  
    
      
    
    He checks to see if our son is still alive. He does this by sloshing my belly around between his palms.  
    
    The fluids and the mass inside wobbles to and fro. Nothing. He slaps the fetus. Hard. Our son kicks so hard that I jump.  
    
    My husband smiles warmly. "He's alive." I don't know if he's pleased because he's saving something for later,  
    
    or because he loves our son.  
    
      
    
    He spreads my legs and hoists them into the air. My pendulous belly ripples with fetal movement as my legs  
    
    bump into my belly. I spread them wider as my husband's huge thirteen inch cock twitches. He's inside me without a moment's notice,  
    
    and I feel his invasion deep inside, pressing against my cervix. The baby reacts with a dropkick to my navel. My husband grins and places  
    
    his hand over the spot, feeling the baby as he fucks me.  
    
      
    
    Suddenly I feel something tear. Until now, he only had seven or eight inches into me. In one thrust, he pushed the rest in.  
    
    I feel my husband's cock against our son, plowing into his fully mature fetal body. It's making his body bounce against the insides of the top of my belly.  
    
    "The little fucker is moving." Yes, my belly contorts into a strange shape as our son is fucked in my womb.  
    
      
    
    I close my eyes and try not to whimper, but it's too late. The pleasure is too much, and the baby kicks my prostate.  
    
      
    
    I feel him attaching the paddles back onto my belly. My husband is punishing me for making sounds. I deserve it. The baby deserves it too.  
    
    It's his fault I'm orgasming again all over the underside of my baby gut. He pulls out and then flips the switch.  
    
      
    
    The electrical current surges through me. Through my baby. The voltage this time is set to maximum. Our son stands up in my womb as my husband  
    
    watches and laughs. And then it was done. The movements from within my womb are gone. Our son is gone. His dead mass is stuck inside me.  
    
    My water breaks. The rush of fluid is immense.  
    
      
    
    "You'll be pregnant forever." My husband's voice is warm.  
    
    Now that our son is gone, I am not long for this world; we both know that. He takes his scalpel
    in one hand and his cock in the other. He parts my legs and guides the latter into my
    tight, dripping ass; the former opens my throat. I gasp and gurgle as
    my life flows out through the vicious gash. He has slashed my throat,
    and now I will bleed to death on our bed as he fucks me, his hand searching pregnant belly. The fetus is quite dead.  
    
      
    
    "I'm going to have you and the baby preserved like this. So I can fuck you two everyday."  
    
    Our lovemaking has a tender passion to it which is beautiful enough to
    make me cry. Life is leaving me, my spirit is fading, but my body will remain. I'll still  
    
    be there for him physically long after I'm gone.  
    
      
    
    Ah, but just to have him inside me is enough. The sweet thrusting, the hardness, the
    desire I feel in him. Forgetting that my throat is cut, I open my
    mouth. No sound emerges.
    
    His strokes become more rapid. I can feel the dead lump in my belly rocking back and forth.  
    
    He's close, which is good, because I am fading fast. The darkness closes in around me. My lifeblood is
    pumping out, out, onto my wounded muscular chest, onto the bed clothes...my husband
    gasps and comes into me, filling my dying body with his seed once
    more. I smile and let the blackness claim me.


End file.
